


The Cannibal God

by JadeLupine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Choking, Daddy Kink, Fingering, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex, Teaching, Tribal, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLupine/pseuds/JadeLupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham was a simple missionary monk, who just, by a stroke of providence and ill luck, managed to get himself lost in the Scandinavian forests. It is there he is taken to a tribe of heathen men and women, led by a man with the no scruples, and almost no command of known languages. With his wildest of eyes, and his alpine, cragged cheeks, Hannibal seemed to be the embodiment of the Devil. <br/>But why then, was he so insistent on calling himself God?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. God

**Author's Note:**

> WELL, I thought of this idea, based on that extremely attractive picture of Mads all dirty and in leather and crowns. I'm quite sure I'm going to have a fab time writing it, especially as Monk Will is so fucking cute I want to die. HAPPY READING!!!

The stars glint above Will, chinks of light pressing through the great blackness of the European sky, and he thinks, what a time to get lost. But still, he continues, his feet cutting through wet grass, and the stars circled sadly above him, and he wonders if there are even people on this island, this strange, wooded place off the coast of Scandinavia, and if there were, he wishes he knew a way to get to them. He does not sleep, and instead, his eyes are relentlessly open, trying to find a way, but there is no way, and there is no moonlight.

Will Graham was a missionary, and a monk with the Catholic Church of England, and he had been ecstatic to have the opportunity to travel on a large, wooden ship to parts of the world he had only heard about, and to convert people to Christianity, to believe in the true God, that was all he was supposed to do. But the dream ended too soon, as one by one, his comrades stayed on at different cities, embracing sin and living luxuriously, until Will was the only one who would continue on his quest, because he was the only one who embraced the idea of converting sinners and heretics to Christianity. His hair had grown curly and locked, and he had persistent stubble and headaches every morning, but still, he persevered.

The leaves rustled, and Will caught a glimpse of dark hair and eyes pale as morning.

“Hello?” he asks nervously, and he wonders if he was slipping into delirium, because a girl stepped out of the woods, or at least, a woman, clad in a dress made with forest leaves and twine, barely covering what needed to be hidden. Will felt a thrill, not of desire, but of a sort of impulse. Here was a woman who was obviously not Christian; she would not walk around as she did, if she prayed to God. He could convert her, tell her the word of the Lord, and she could tell her brethren. But first, he needed water.

“Do you know where I can get water?” Will asked, and the woman frowns, her hands playing with her hair. “To drink?”

The woman does not seem to understand, and she looks at Will as if he was terribly incongruous with the way things ought to be, and she stares at him with her large, pale eyes.

“Will.” Will pointed to his chest, and spoke his name. “Will Graham.”

The woman does not respond, and she turns away, into the leaves, and hesitates. She grabs Will’s hand in her small, wiry one and she pulls him inward into the dark forest and the night blooming with stars. Will is startled, and he drops his bag, and only nearly drops his Bible, as he hurried along with the woman, who seemed to be moving at a frighteningly fast pace, for a lady.

“No, no, no.” Will pants, hastily. “I must go back. No, _no_.”

“No.” The woman laughs, and that is when Will realizes that she has no inkling of the English language. “No, no, no! No, no, no, no!”

 

 

She brings him into a large clearing, where sat a number of men and women, all clad in the same outfit of pressed leaves and twine. The women wore an odd type of dress, which covered their breasts, and unmentionables, and was held up by twine. Their arms and legs were bare, Will thinks with a disgusted shudder. The men wore a type of short skirt, made of the same material, reaching around mid-thigh, and there was a leather strap around their shoulders, at the end of which hung a small knife. Their chests were bare, and rather hairy, covered with tattoos that were obviously done with a sharp stich and burnt sap. Will shivers again, and relishes the smell of the pieces of meat that were roasting on the fire.

“Where am I?” He whispers blindly, but the woman was pulling him further, beyond the men and women that laughed openly at his monk robes, and closer to the fire. She lets go of his hand only when they are directly in front of the fire, and Will glances upward. Sitting on a stool made of wood, his legs crossed under him, was a stately man, obviously their leader. His face was cragged and alpine, his deep-set eyes peering at Will, and his lips were full, and twisted in a permanent expression of disgust. His hair was shoulder-length and tangled, and there was a feverish glint to his eyes. His chest was not covered in tattoos, but they snaked up and down his muscled, wiry arms, up to his overly broad shoulders. His chest was covered in hair, and had beads of sweat glistening on it, from the heat of the fire, and he held a curved knife in his rough hand. And on his head was a crown of tarnished metal.

 _Jesus_ , Will thinks, and immediately despises himself for thinking so.

“Hvad, Alana?” The man’s voice addressed the girl, and it was wild and deep, like water on stone.

“Aenglander” The woman who had found Will, Alana said, not without a trace of mockery. The leader nodded, and Alana bowed deeply, before retreating back to join the women. The majestic man now surveyed Will, who gritted his teeth and tried not to speak anything foolish, this man had the look of someone who would sooner gut him than speak to him. The monarch now stood, and Will noticed his formidable height, and even more frightening build, and he thinks, he could easily crush my head between his hands.

“England?” The man asks in his unfathomable voice, the word almost illegible under his thick accent, and points at Will.

“Yes!” Will finally gasped out, his eyes widening, and his heart beating peculiarly quickly. “My name is Will Graham, and I am a missionary from the monastery in Devon, and I’d like it if you could---“

“No.” The leader said, frowning slightly. He made a gesture of slowing down with his hand, and tightened his lips. “No.”

Will hisses exasperatedly, was no the only word these heathens _knew_?

“Will Graham.” He pointed to his chest, and enunciated slowly, and his voice sounded worn, even to himself.

“Hannibal.” The man lay a hand flat across his own chest, and then moved it to lay across Will’s heart. Will almost recoiled, in England, they did not touch strangers so commonly. “Will.”

“Yes.” Will said, and wondered if life in this tribe was pleasant, or if it was a haze of death and blood and offers to heathen gods. “Do you think…no.”

“Uh..” Will started again. “Sleep. Here?”

“Now?” Hannibal inquires, his faint eyebrows on a sharp boned brow rising. “Sleep. Now, Will?”

“Yes.” Will nods, and wishes the man would offer him some food, preferably some of the meat roasting tantalizingly on the flames. “Eat. Sleep.”

“Yes.” Hannibal says again, and snaps his fingers. “Zeller, maad.”

A smaller man, dark stubble dotting his face, came toward Hannibal, his back bent absurdly low in a subservient bow, and placed a plate of meat in front of Will, not acknowledging the newcomer. He touched his forehead to Hannibal’s veined, rough-looking feet, and backed away, his back still bent low. Will knows he cannot afford to displease this king, but his lips quirk in disgust at the way the man treated the other as if they were slaves. Will tore into the meat, it was salted, and had an intense smoky flavor to it, which was natural, and for a second, Will enjoys the thrill of adventure. There were no forks, no spoons, and this was a tribe full of men and women who walked half naked, probably worshipping tribal gods. It was a missionary’s paradise, things you only read in legends penned by monks. Will would save these sinners as only he could.

“Thank you.” He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and turns his head to Hannibal, smiling. The man does not acknowledge his smile, but instead, snaps his fingers again, and another man appears, grey haired and stooping, who bowed low in front of the king, only to receive a blow to his head from Hannibal’s feet, as if it wasn’t worth of him to use his hands.

“Vand.” He snaps, and the stooping man immediately procures a small, clay bowl of water, which Will drank thirstily. He stared up at the man again, his benefactor, and his eyes could not move past the ragged, scarred chest, knotted with muscle, and glinting with sweat, or oil.

“Will.” Hannibal says, and in a flash of a second, he rises again from his seat, and pins Will to a nearby tree. The force of his gesture alarms Will, and he breathes hastily, Hannibal’s darkened eyes burning and blooming within him, his arm like a young sapling, it could break Will in two, if the man wanted to. Will’s heart shivers in his chest, and he wills it to stop.

“Will.” The man breathed again, a rolling hint of anger in his voice. The air around them feels soft, like linen, and the only hard thing was Hannibal, pressing relentlessly against him, smelling of sweat, and wood smoke. “Will. _Mine_.”

“What are you?” Will’s lips part in indignation and disgust, and he cannot answer the probability the tribal king faced to him, that he would stay.

“I….” Hannibal’s mouth tightened, as if considering the words in English, and he breathed in sharply through his nose, and Will’s heart thrummed in his chest like a lyre. “I…God.”

“Oh no, you’re not.”

 

X

 

The night was not that cold after all, and the moss under him was like pale, sprigged cotton, Will lies loosely on it, and tries to sleep, but his breathing is too fast for sleep, and his nerves are too ragged to rest. He cannot hear birds or water or wind, and he is almost frightened by the stillness, save for the breathing of Alana, a few feet away. The men and the women did not sleep separately in this tribe, and only an hour before, Will was forced to endure the moans and gasps of a couple in public fornication, their sensual sweat dripping down their backs. He remembered the smile on the leader’s face, and turned his eyes to Hannibal. He was not asleep, his eyes were wide open, and they were watching the stars. His mouth was set in a grim, crooked line, and he looked even darker, even more _foreign_ in this light, and Will rose, and wended his way to the man. Hannibal did not notice him, and instead, he tightened his jaw, and still, still watched the stars. His hands were clenched on his crossed legs, and they were great hands, large and scarred, hands that could hold a life without it spilling. He looked like someone who sloughed through life as a man sloughed through snowstorms.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Will asked, wondering if the man was plagued by sleep sickness, if he could ever close his eyes.

Instead of answering, the king gave him a long, searching look, taking in Will’s face, his monk’s robe, and the embarrassing lack of shoes, which were thankfully not noticeable here, as nobody in this wild area seemed to ever have heard of shoes. Hannibal’s glance starts out rock hard and impermeable, but eventually becomes faint on Will’s skin.  He points toward the stars.

“What?” He asks, his accent garbling the word, his sonorous voice making it clearer.

“Stars.” Will replies, and tries a smile, which floats to the ground and is not returned.

Hannibal touches the tree next to the makeshift throne he was sitting cross legged on.

“Tree.” Will complies.

He points to Zeller.

“Human.” Will says.

“Humin.” Hannibal tries, and his lips tighten in annoyance, he shakes his head. “Hum _in_.”

“Hu _man_.” Will corrects him gently, and he is reminded of his classes as a novice.

Hannibal points to Will’s Bible, which he always carried by hand.

“Bible.”

“Bible.” Hannibal says, and he takes the book from Will’s unwilling arms. He pens the book, and for a second, only for a slight, split second, before the grimness and the tightness close in, Will catches a glimpse of the unassuming excitement of a child opening it’s first present. Hannibal frowns at the handwritten words, and he reaches out a thick finger to point at them.

“Words.” Will says, and he smiles at the painstaking script of the old monks before him, the first to pen the word of God in Latin. “Stories. Truth.”

“You.” Hannibal points to Will, and then pointed to the book.

“Yes.”

Hannibal, he then did something Will would never expect, not from a tribal king who fancied himself the Lord, not from someone who wore only a skirt and no shoes and definitely not from a heathen. He put his hand, flat on his chest, they were both dark and golden like the sky, and then he points to the book. He does the gesture again, when Will only cocked his head in confusion. He placed his hand on his heart, and then on the book. In the sliver of stars, the gesture looked eerie, and he finally understood.

“You want to learn to read?” he asks, and this time, it is Hannibal, who looked confused. There was a cathedral of branches above their head, and the starlight that glittered through them illuminated Hannibal’s face as he stared impassively at Will. The monk knelt down on the moss, in front of where Hannibal was sitting, and put his hand on his own chest, on the rough sackcloth the monks used. He then put his hand on the Bible, and he pointed to the words, running his fingers along them. It was the Book of Job, he noticed. And then, finally, he placed his hand on Hannibal’s chest, and he could feel the soft thrumming of a tribal, foetal beat beneath the muscle and skin and sweat. He removed his hand, and smiled, earning a nod from Hannibal. He turned to leave, to sleep, and thoughts unfolded themselves through his brain like a banner newly stitched. How could this man, who seems to live on jungle meat and take part in tribal, heathen practices, _how_ could this man know the importance of the written word? Why did he want to be taught, Will thought desperately, quietly, and he wonders if maybe, this dark king had once seen society.

“Will.” The wild, lion-like voice made Will spin around again.

Hannibal’s hand is on his own chest again, the spot Will’s hand had vacated mere minutes ago, and he stares intently at Will.

“I. _God_.”

And _why_ , thinks Will, was he so insistent that he was God?


	2. Happenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will commits a sin, finds out about cannibalism, and Hannibal is shrouded in even more of a mystery than before their mouths met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoo sorry about the late update, I had college and gross ew  
> HAPPY READING Y'ALL

It was eight days later, as daylight crept fingers under Will’s eyelids, and into every crevice in every tree, careful, light daylight. Will awoke to the smell of burning wood, pleasantly smoky, and he lay for a minute, stretching and lingering like a silk canopy caught on the wind. As he comes to, his robe covered in leaves and grit, he thinks (or maybe---he remembers) the feeling of rough fingers on his unshaven cheek and the dark whiff of sweat and smoke, and blood. But nobody could have touched him at night, could they? He rises, brushing himself off, and smiling at Alana, and he sees Hannibal standing over the fire he looked even larger when he was drawn to full height, his hair buffeting slightly in the wind, and his skirt of hemp and leaves exposing just enough of darkened, muscular thighs. He turns, as if he could _smell_ Will approaching, and Will is satisfied, or relieved when a lilac smile blooms on the ragged face.

“Will.” He says, as if he is proud of remembering.

“Is it time for breakfast?” Will asks, vowing not to use simple English, after all, Hannibal was, as absurd as it sounded, his student. He had taught the entirety of the English alphabet to the man in four days, and he was beginning to learn simple words now. The speed at which Hannibal was picking up words and languages alarmed Will, almost frightened him. How could a man who lived in the forest, watching forbidden orgies and clad only in a skirt, how could he learn faster than any monk had?

“Eat?” Hannibal asks, in his voice of burnt umber and ocean dark.  Hannibal glares at a man, the same short one that had brought Will his drink on the first day, and the man quickly places two hunks of meat, which smelled deliciously crisp, on large leaves, and handed it to Hannibal and Will, who retired off into the shade. The tribe had gotten used to Hannibal’s fixation with the pale skinned man who covered his entire body, and eve if they had minded their chief retiring for hours into the shade with the newcomer and a book, they did not dare complain.

“Like?” Hannibal tries out his new words on Will, and even though the monk knows that this man was ruthless, he would tear Will apart with his hands and teeth, but Will thrilled in the look in the man’s eyes as he said words.

“It’s very good.” Will said, licking a little of the grease off his thumb, and smiling at the man. “Is it beef?”

“Not cow.” Hannibal says, frowning, as though it was absurd.

“Pork?” Will asked again, curious now. “Pig?”

“Not pig.” Hannibal tightened his lips, and his jaw worked, as though he was searching for the right words. “Today. Dark. See.”

It was probably iguana, or some tribal delicacy, Will thought with a shudder.

“Let’s read the Bible, shall we?” Will felt righteousness cloud within him, every time he asked Hannibal to try read the Bible. The Bible was their nursery rhyme book, as it was to all monks, and again, Will thinks secretly of being back in England, with Hannibal in a monk’s robe and tunic, standing next to him at mass. He shuddered at the thought, and wished time wouldn’t trickle so slowly.

“For God…” Hannibal started, his finger with its gritty nail pressing hard on the words as if brute strength would help him. He pronounced God as _gahd_ , and somehow, to Will, the wrongness felt delightfully right. “so loved…ah…”

“The world…” Will helps.

“That he give…his one and.” Hannibal tries through gritted teeth, and beads of sweat appeared on his lip. “onlai…”

“Only.” Will adds.

“Only son…who ever belee vus…uhmm.” The tribal king’s lips are closed even tighter that they almost seem white in between words. “in him, shall not…perish. But. But-have eter…eter…”

“Eternal.”

“Eternal life.” Hannibal finishes with a breath, and closes his eyes. “Mean?”

“Fantastic!” Will couldn’t help the grin from splitting his face, a sliver of moon in the shade under the trees. “You read an entire verse, this is..”

“Mean.” Hannibal said again, his voice insistent now, staring at Will with darkened eyes.

“It means God…”

“ _Your_ God.” Hannibal says darkly.

“God loves us so much, this world that he gave his son. He says whoever believes in Him will not die, but will live forever.” Will said, the simple translation his father had told him at age four, he was now repeating to a forty year old chief, thousands of London miles away. This man, Will’s thoughts are a breath of wind, this man wants to know things that novice monks shied away from learning. Who was this tribal king? The feel of a rough hand startled Will, it was on his cheek, the palm grazing his lips and he looks up at the owner of the hand, who was staring at him intently.

“What?” Hannibal asks insistently, his hand not straying from Will’s face.

Cheek, Will wants to tell him the correct answer. This is a cheek.

“Touch.” He whispered instead.

Touch, he thinks, looking at Hannibal.

Touch, Hannibal thinks, looking at Will.

Hannibal’s other hand comes up as well, and he is holding Will’s face, and the wind is no longer a wind, it is a hymn, and the branches above were a cathedral, Will feels home. His hands slide down, to Will’s neck, Will’s neck that could be broken so easily, like a twig, and they go to his shoulders, where they remained. It seemed as if Hannibal was clutching the threads of the future in Will’s shoulders, his grip was too tight, and Will flames with disappointment when he lets go.

“Touch.” Hannibal says again, and rises, his legs towering over Will, and the leaves cracking as he walks away. Will looks back at the man who walks away, the man who walks with an artless, dryadic grace, like a king, yet so unlike one.

(he imagines himself in the wild hands and laughing and laughing and---)

No, Will tells himself, his eyes shut tight and his teeth gritted, breathing harsh and loud. It was a _sin_ , he told himself, the king was a heathen, he was a _man_. It was wrong, wrong, wrong, and the guilt settles low within him, it sings like a bow. But underneath the guilt, there was the glint of a smile and---

(touch, he had whispered)

and he holds on to the moment by the strings, and prays that it will not fly away even though the emerald forests fade to grey in his eyes.

 

As it got dark, Will was writing in his Bible, when the thrum of vine-stringed instruments, and the thud-thud of crude drums prodded him, and he turned, to see Hannibal standing erect next to the fire, a man cowering in front of him, and the king had never looked more stately than in that moment. In fact, with the fire playing across his face and glazing his eyes, his hair strewn by the wind, and his mouth set in a grim line, Will would have called him a _god_. This must be some sort of tribal punishment, Will thinks, maybe whipping, or tattooing. He would stop it if it got too insane, of course, he was a man of the cloth, he would not condone this.

But it was in the first second or so that Hannibal ended the small man’s life, hardly any time for Will to stop it, the man sunk his teeth into the prisoner’s neck, blood dripping down, almost spurting from the artery onto Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal ripped his mouth away, and with it, Will is horrified to see, comes a chunk of flesh, the blood dripping down grotesquely, and the king tilts his head up, and swallows, like a wolf.

The tribe chanted louder.

The evening star, turning lazy circles in the sky, noticed two things. One was that Will Graham, although afraid, and shocked, does not move, does not stop the man, does not run, but instead, is rooted to the spot. The other was that Hannibal, Lord of the Scandinavian woods, had thrown the man on the ground, and was now using the knife slung at his belt to dig out the heart. He held the organ in his hand, severed the arteries, and Will was not surprised to see Hannibal tear into it with a savage sort of grace, his eyes flashing red and his mouth a haze of blood. The tribe was chanting louder and louder, and Hannibal was finished, he left the body for the others to undignifiedly pounce on, and he strode slowly toward Will.

“Will.” He said, with his mouth dripping crimson and his chest awash with another’s blood. “Will.”

“Cannibal.” Will breathed, horror lapping at his words, but he does not move, even as Hannibal comes close to him, too close, he could smell the blood, and the man’s hands cup Will’s face again, just as this morning, except now they left red streaks of blood on Will’s cheeks. They slid down to his neck, and Will felt a shudder run through him, and reminded himself, Hannibal was _not_ a God, he was flesh and blood and bone.

Hannibal’s hands find his shoulders and his mouth comes to Will’s mouth as though they had waited a lifetime of longing to do so. Will, for the first time in his life, tastes another’s blood, the metallic tinge of it awash in his mouth and in Hannibal’s kiss, and he is burning in a sinner’s glory, Hannibal is leading him into the woods, away from the tribe, and presses him against a tree. He could feel Hannibal’s manhood pressing urgently against his thigh as the taller man kissed him again and again, short, strong kisses flavored with blood and sweat. Hannibal’s hands tried to work open Will’s robe, to reach him inside, but Will’s hands find his and they stall them, stop them there.

“No. It is a sin.” Will says, but his throat snags over the ends of the words.

“Sin.” Hannibal repeats with his red teeth, and he is staring at Will with a face void of emotion, and Will wants nothing more, he wants nothing more than to feel Hannibal inside him, to end with his seed within him, but it was a sin, it was a _sin_. It was Will’s turn to touch Hannibal’s face, and kiss him lightly on the lips.

“Come.” He said, and he sinks into Hannibal, clings to him, and to his surprise, the cannibal holds him back, and kisses him again, a quiet sort of kiss. His smile is that slow bloom in his cragged-ice of a face, but there is no longer desire in his face, only an affectionate glance at Will, something neither of them thought he was capable of. In another life, Will is thrashing under Hannibal, sweat staining his back in the darkness and screams of blasphemy spill from his lips, in another life, he is a sinner. Hannibal pulls him down, and sits with him against at tree, and Will protests again.

“No, it is a sin. We cannot—“

“Sleep.” Hannibal said, and sits against the tree, Will’s head on his bloody chest, and Will looks up at the man who would put aside desire for Will.  The cannibal kisses the slope of Will’s shoulder and the younger man can feel it even under the rough sackcloth. He again imagines Hannibal in England, clad in a tunic, his hair wild and his eyes dark and laughing, and he feels desire stir inside him, it makes him breathe sharply, as blood rushed to his groin, he felt almost dizzy. He placed a hand on Hannibal’s crotch, nervousness lacing his veins as he felt the man’s erection, and Hannibal sits up further.

“Yes?” He asks Will, a hand on his cheek. “Yes?”

“I’m frightened.” Will admits, his lips pressed white. “I want to, but it is a sin, and…I’ve never…”

“Yes?” the man asks again, his eyes probing and endless.

Will’s breath quickens in fear when he imagines Hannibal pounding into him, scratching him, choking him, and he is not ready, he thinks with a lump in his throat, he does not want to commit a sin wild and fast and rough, not now. Now, he wants it slow and sweet, molasses-thick, and dripping glaze, but he knows Hannibal, the lord of wild and rough and violence, he will never do that.

“Slow.” Will whispers. “Yes. Slow.”

Hannibal’s kiss is on his neck, and there are no teeth in the kiss, only lips and smoke and skin, and Will’s robe slides off him, crumpling on the ground, and Hannibal sheds his skirt, they are both nude, and Will feels himself getting harder, and he finds Hannibal’s hand on his groin. It is not rough and rubbing as it was earlier, but it stroked Will’s shaft, arousing him quietly and Will threw his head back, breathing shallowly, and he kissed Hannibal on the lips again, a cushioned, teeth-grazing kiss. Will turns over, he wants it _now_ , although he didn’t want to be broken, he didn’t want to sin but he needed to feel the larger man inside him, he wanted.

Will turns, gets on all fours, and Hannibal parted his buttocks gently, and probed Will with a tongue that knew where it was going. Will let out a small breath of air, he is afraid, but he needs Hannibal’s tongue to lick him behind, and he is so proud, and it was so wonderful of the cannibal lord to take it slowly, to make it sweet and thick. Hannibal’s tongue pushes inside him for a slight second, and Will feels sweat bead on his back. He feels a wet finger enter him slowly, teasingly, and he knows Hannibal is pleasuring himself as well as Will, he is stroking his own cock and breathing through his nose. Hannibal’s finger enters him, and thrusts slowly, as the cannibal himself nears the edge, and he pushes another finger into Will, making the man cry out softly, and Hannibal continues to fuck him with two fingers, Will’s soft cries the only sound in the deepest part of the wood. Will thinks of Hannibal, how he would look as a God, clothed in nothing, and his head erect, and he almost reaches climax, the image pounds within him as Hannibal starts moving three fingers inside him, softly yet insistently.

“Now.” Will breathes, and Hannibal is on his knees over Will, and it was only a moment of pain until he feels delightfully filled, but Hannibal is not thrusting rough and quick with nails and blood, as Will had feared, but instead, moving slowly, pushing himself in and out of Will, kissing the back of his neck and stroking Will’s cock with a hand. They are moving together slowly, he can imagine how they must look from above, Hannibal’s hips gyrating above his, slowly, as if a dance. They get more insistent, and Will begins to push himself up against the king when he feels Hannibal grunt, go taut as a harp string, and inhale a hissing breath as he came within Will, his seed inside the monk, sticky-slow, and it was the thought of Hannibal filling him from the inside out that broke Will. Climax was a crumbling, druidic moment for Will, witchery in his eyes for the minutes that he was a sinner, and he can imagine Hannibal’s face as Will came into his hand, his teeth grit and his face tight, pleased, and his eyes were smoke.

“Oh father, father.” Will cries, his teeth grinding against each other.

Hannibal pulls out, but Will can still feel his seed between his thighs and he is exquisite, he thinks, they are exquisite. They fall asleep in the same positions, Hannibal’s arms around Will, as though protecting him from danger, although the only dangerous thing in the wood that night was Hannibal himself.

Will awakes in a slow turn of the earth, and finds Hannibal already clothed, if his skirt could be called clothing, sitting in a warm pool of sunlight, and he looked as if he were learning Will by heart. Will finds his robe and clothes himself, and he is surprised to find that he does not remember the night before as a sin, but as delight. He smiles at Hannibal, and watches the shape of his hands as they rested on the forest floor.

“You.” Hannibal tried to twist his lips into the unfamiliar language he was trying so hard to learn. “You say. Father.”

“Did I?” Will’s cheeks stained a slight red, and he bit his lip. “I-I don’t know, it must—it must—“

“Good.” Hannibal’s smile is uneven and wild, like him.

“Good?” Will asks, his relief almost laughter.

“Yes. Good.” The man says, and stares at Will in his way. “But not…not. Book. Not. Book father.”

“Book father?” Will frowned, before understanding sank into him. “No! No, of course not, that Father is holy, he is the Almighty, no, Hannibal, that Father is different.”

“Not like.” Hannibal snarls through gritted teeth, his eyes darkening. “Not _like_ Book Father.”

“Why?” Will asked, he was not afraid of Hannibal’s snarl and clenched teeth today, he needed to know why the man despised God with his passion. “Why don’t you like the Father?”

“I. _Father_.” Hannibal struggled, a vein standing out on his head and his cheeks paling dangerously. A twig broke in his hand. He rose, and Will stood too, half expecting the man to strike him, or beat him down but instead, he turned around, exposing his back to Will.

“Look.” He said.

“Yes, yes, your tattoo scars, you all have got them, I –“

“Look.” Hannibal growled.

And Will _saw_.

The back was muscular, knotted, and dark with the sun, sweat glinting at odd intervals. The back was scarred, but the entire tribe’s backs possessed scars cut into designs with a knife, sort of like a mutilating tattoo, gruesome, but it was a tradition, it was something everybody had, and Hannibal would not have asked Will to look. But when Will looked closer, he saw that Hannibal’s scars weren’t cut into him with a knife, they were long, straight scars, standing out on his skin, packed so tight they looked almost like a maze, starting at his shoulders and ending where the back dipped into the pelvis. The almost looked like whipping scars, except that they were thicker, far thicker, about an inch wide each and Will gasped. The scars were broken up into sections ----

as though someone had beaten the living hell out of him with a _belt_ when he was a young child---before he had grown.  

“Who…who did this..I..” Will felt tears start to his eyes as Hannibal turned around, the steely glint in his eye again. “What h—what ha—“

“I happened.” Hannibal snarled a savage smile, and walked into the wood, back to his tribe.

Will was so caught up in the words, that he did not realize that he had never mentioned, or taught the word “happen” to Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop~  
> I know that sex was just short, and sweet, but the rough and heavy stuff is gonna come only after the happenings in the next chapter, but in this one i just found it sweet how hannibal was willing to like not have sex ok  
> Also, look at all the secrets hannibal is hiding yo
> 
> ALL reviews and comments are appreciated, and very much loved!!!


	3. Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's secret is revealed, somehow, and Will Graham has to make decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more emotional than the others, but there's a lot going on... Also, don't worry, there's pure smut at the end.

He does not sleep that night, not Will. Today, he watches Hannibal sleep, and although he feels that he is watching without permission, he feels steady and gloriously adrift as he takes in the swell of Hannibal's closed eyelids, and the mouth that looked delightfully full and red from kissing. Will lays his hand on the lord's hard, stubbled cheek and grazed his own lips across them. He feels safe and silent, although he was in a blackened forest sitting alongside cannibals. He feels warm, although the ice formed quietly on the boughs. 

"Touch." Hannibal had said yesterday, when he kissed him from behind, both of them spend after making love. 

To Will, he feels as if he is saving the world, this lone, young missionary monk with the baby face, and curled hair. He bites his lip around Hannibal, and runs his hands through his hair, and he knows it is impractical and childish, but desire was a fantastic weapon, and he knew that from the way Hannibal looked at him, he would do anything for the monk. Except, of course, tell him how he had gotten the scars that tore his back in two. Will, however, feels fierce and bright with accomplishment, he had taught a heathen to read the Bible, he was saving the ignorant, oh God, he was. 

"Kneppe legetøj." He forgot who it was, but a large man had said that as Will walked by him, he had said it to the woman he sat next to. Now, sitting cross legged in his place next to Hannibal, Will whispered the word in the cannibal lord's ear, and asked what it meant. To his surprise, Hannibal stood up, his muscled tensing and his legs taut, and he calmly asked Will, quietly, in English.

"Who."

"What does it mean?" Will tried to evade the question, hitched a short grin on his face as he did not want to cause a scene. 

"Who?" Hannibal's voice was curt and dangerous, and although he thinks the man would do anything for him, maybe it would not stretch so far. 

Will pointed discreetly, hating himself for bringing it up.

Hannibal strode toward the man with a powerful intensity, and Will, form the back, watched how the sweat glinted on his back that was trembling with seeming fury. His shoulders are erect, he is whole-bodied and beautiful, and again, Will questions Hannibal's mortality. He struck the large man on his ear, once, hard, and the man in question slumped to the ground, his breakfast forgotten in the face of being knocked out. The rest of the tribe didn't notice, or didn't care, they were used to their king's fits of temper. But Will, who had been with them for only a few short weeks, stared in awe at Hannibal's face, tangled and snarled, inky and furious, his hands cords of muscled tendons and his eyes fire.His teeth glinted as he sat back down next to Will. 

"Is he dead?" He thinks he loves the tribal king, he is almost sure, but sometimes he cannot help the fear that drips through. 

"Not dead." Hannibal says nonchalantly, getting up, and gesturing Will to follow. Will got up, and walked behind the cannibal, into the clearing they had made love in days previously. Hannibal sits down heavily, his eyes closed in apparent meditation, and Will sat next to him, staring at Hannibal's great hands that looked as if they held lives, and the knuckles that had hit a million blows.

"Oh good, though." Will grinned, his boyish face lighting up. He was still almost a child really, our Will. and his face had the malleability prone to the early twenties, where hope, madness and joy all shone through. "I mean, really, Hannibal, I wouldn't want you to kill a man just for saying..."

"Today. Dark." Hannibal said shortly, raising an eyebrow at Will.  

"What?"

"You kill. Eat. Tomas." The cannibal's words were measured, but they still made Will feel sore and shocked, dog eared. Hannibal had no expression on his face, and Will glared at him and the nothingness displayed on his face, only his eyes, black and shrapnel-like, stared at Will. 

"No." Will tried to not let his voice rise, for he knew he would embarass himself. "Please, Hannibal, this isn't something I can do." 

Hannibal stares at him again, and Will, even with the tears forcing themselves out of his eyes, he envisions Hannibal as a child in the forest, a child of the forest, with his black eyes and bright face, his scarred ankles and his feathery hair. 

"Kill." Hannibal says. "He...say bad. Insult." 

"Han..." Will could not finish. He had already committed so many with this man, firm, insistent sins that he had enjoyed and moaned to, but they were sins in the eyes of the Church. And now, the tribal lord was asking him to  _kill a man_ , the worst crime that he could commit, all for the sake of an insult. He couldn't, he couldn't, he shook his head and shut his lips, while the tears ran silently down his face. Hannibal took in the sight, almost drank it in, the young monk with the bright eyes like holes burned in his face, and he places a hand, uncharacteristically gentle, on Will's. 

"Why." It was not a question, questions were rare from Hannibal. 

"It's against the laws of God, Hannibal." Will explained, swallowing audibly. "Killing, it's against what God says..." 

" _Fuck_  your God!" Hannibal shouted, his eyes snapping black with fury and his voice reverberating. Will ignored the fact that he had never, ever taught Hannibal a curse word, and focused on the fact that the man's eyes that seemed to be a kaleidoscope of fire and brimstone, and Will feels unsteady, even though they were sitting down.

"You. Don't. Talk." Hannibal struggled with the words again, his eyes glaring at Will's trembling lips. And Will, even in the state he was, remembered how he loved all the scattered bits of Hannibal, the roughness, and the wildness. "You. Don't. Talk. Your. God." 

"Why?" Will shot back, this was the realm of God, and he could answer everything. He could answer anything that this heathen threw at him, and for a moment, Will forgets that he is younger, and smaller than this man, he forgets that he is in the presence of a cannibal king with an unsteady temper, and he forgets that he is thousands of miles away from home. For almost a moment, Will feels oddly superior, because civilization had taught him so much. 

"Why?" Hannibal growls, his mouth twisting in a snarl, and his hands almost curling around WIll's neck, held back with obvious restraint. 

"Why don't you like to hear about God?" Will snapped. "Ever since I began teaching you to read, you've been avoiding the words of God, you don't  _care_ , Hannibal, but don't you want absolution? You commit so many sins, and you cannot even  _listen_ , you cannot even care."

Will feels his voice getting higher, but he could not stop, he was right, oh God, he was right.

"You don't know, Hannibal, because you haven't seen the miracles. You haven't seen  _anything_ , and you don't know how powerful the Lord is. You can't even say a simple prayer, and you expect... you expect that you are  _greater_  than God?"

"You. Prayer?" Hannibal snarled, his teeth glinting dangerously, his eyes flashing torches. He got up onto his knees, and gripped Will's shoulders, put their faces very close together, until Will could smell the smoke and sweat that lingered on Hannibal's skin. "Prayer?"

"Please don't..." Will braced himself, breathing harshly through his nose, eyes blurring. 

"Our Father who art in Heavenhallowedbethyname..." Hannibal gabbled, the words short and harsh, it sounded like something ingrained deep within him, almost into his flesh, as his voice recited what was so well known to Will. "Thykingdomcomethywill bedoneoneart as it is in heaven giveustodyaourdaily bread and fo----forgiveusourtrespassesandwechallforgivethosewho trespass against usand leadusnotinto temptationbut deliverus fromevilamen."

"Happy? Happy,  _Father_?" Hannibal's lips curled. 

He lingered over Will for a few more moments, breathing heavily and unsteadily before rising gracefully, and looking down at him once, before walking away to rejoin his tribe, his back still carved, scarred, and elegant. Will is no good at figures, and facts, and mysteries, it was why he became a monk. His fevered mind did not think about how Hannibal knew the prayer, how he had recited it word to word, no he doesn't think about any of that. Instead, the look of disgust, and of disappointment on Hannibal's face exploded in his mind, he is not used to this franticness, and he stays where he is, and let the tears come. 

-

It was sundown, and the sky descended red, and Will shudders as the men make up the fire, let it burn harshly, and Will watched, as Hannibal took Tomas, the man who had insulted him, and knelt him down in front of the flames. The cannibal lord did not look at Will, did not acknowledge him in any way, as he ripped out the throat of the large, now-screaming man, this time with his teeth and nothing else, and he almost regurgitated his lunch as he saw the redness drip down Hannibal's chest, saw the entrails being pulled out with bare, bloodied hands. 

What had Will been thinking?

He could not stay here, he had been foolish even to  _try_  and teach these heathens, who was led by a man too close to his inner beast.  this was not for him, not for Will, who insisted upon praying every night, and to whom the thought of death brings nausea and sickness. Fear and guilt clasped hands in Will's heart, but oddly, love swirled darkly around it, and Will hated himself, oh God. 

Hannibal had done feasting, and left the body for the others, but he did not join Will, but Will does not care, he does not care tonight, because he will leave, he will not stay here. There is something like a gaping wound inside of him, black with gangrene and he feels dead, he needs to go back, he needs England, and God, oh please, he needs God horribly. He rises, trying to clear the fog from his head, but images of blood and gore glimmer behind his eyelids, he needs to get away. He walks into the forest, the trees were blurred and at least it was still light, he thinks. Will stands there in the clearing, and rests his head against the tree, he needs to get home, sickness and fear were carving caverns into him, and his eyes were red.

"Come." Hannibal is behind him, his mouth still stained with blood, and his eyes curt, like stone. But Will does not have to listen, not anymore.

"i'm leaving." He says resolutely, staring the older man in the eyes. "I'm leaving, and you can kill me, but you're not going to stop me." 

"Leav-ing?" Hannibal raised his eyebrows, aware of the seriousness, he looks brittle and jagged edged. "What means?"

"I'm going away. Go. Back. To England." Will gritted his teeth and forced inside the love that ached deeper than grief. 

"No." Hannibal's eyes flashed fire for the second time that day. "Stay."

"I won't." Will protested, obstinate. "You can kill me, you can scream, you can hang yourself, but I have to go. I don't belong here, not with...not with you." 

Will is rubble and hurt and helplessness and Hannibal is fury and fire. 

"No." Hannibal says, and catches hold of Will's hand, as if he could physically stop him. He pulls the man down to sit on the soft leaves and stared at him again, black eyes at blue, and Will tried to not let his face tremble. "Please." 

" _I never taught you that!_ " It was Will's turn to shout, and his voice was high and shallow and hollow. "Where do you learn all these words if I have never taught you them?  _Tell me_!"

"Yes." Hannibal agrees, and his eyes don't flash fire or fury anymore, they do not even carry their usual cold glint, and instead, they are a plain black, opaque. For a second, Will could see a child. "Tell."

"What is it?" Will asked, his lips tightening. 

"Father." Hannibal pressed his hand on his chest. 

"Go---"

" _No_." Hannibal said, and his voice seemed to carry some of it's old strength. "Mine. Father."

He touches Will.

"Englands. Ma---" he pats the soil on the ground, to signify that she was Scandinavian. 

'What happened?" Will felt curiosity probing.  _English_. Hannibal's father had been from England. 

"Very God." Hannibal tried to gesture, he pointed at Will, and at the pocket he kept his Bible. Will took out the book, and gave it to his lover.

"Every day. Read." Hannibal taps the Bible insistently. "Every day. Ten times. Read, read. God Book." 

"He was very religious?" Will understands. 

"Ja--Yes. Every night. Sister---Mischa." Hannibal's hands convulsively tightened around the book. "Father. Say. Hannibal Mischa. Read. Say pray."

"And?"

"Get wrong." Hannibal's eyes flashed. "Ten and ten lash. Belt. Bleeding. He say. Are you happy. We say. Thank you for lash. Every night. Mischa, small."

"Hannibal, I d--" Will started, guilt muffling his words. 

Don't say anymore.

Will couldn't breathe. 

"Small." Hannibal pressed on, frown lines appearing on his face. "She make. Wrong. Many time. One time. He beat, He beat and beat."

His hands were white around the Bible.

Will felt himself shivering.

"Beat her, blood. Many blood." Hannibal's voice wavered slightly. "Ears, mouth nose. Blood. She make one wrong. She say who art "on" heaven. Not in. Small wrong. But he beat, he beat, and she bleed. Small wrong. Father say... all wrong to God big wrong. He beat. She...die. Very small. Weak."

Tears that made tracks on his darkened skin.

"Oh God." Will's face crumples, feeling inadequate, selfish. "I---Hannibal, I..."

"I kill him. Ten year old. I kill him, bite throat. Good. Taste good. I kill, I say... Are you happy, Father. He not reply. I say prayer. Our Father. Last time. Never again." Hannibal finished, and now there is no sadness on his face, only a vicious cruelty that seemed darker than what he had seen when Hannibal had ripped out throats. 

"That your God." Hannibal snarled to Will, pinning his shoulders against the tree. "That your God, Will."

Will did not respond, he could not. 

Instead.

He.

Pressed his lips against Hannibal's hard enough to bruise, and he tasted salt and longing and sweat. Hannibal grips onto Will's shoulders, and uses his teeth, grind's them against Will's lips, as if drawing hungry sustenance. Will did not know what he was thinking, perhaps he was not thinking at all, but he removes his clothes and strokes himself as Hannibal does the same, still kissing him hungrily, Hannibal did not bother to be soft this time. This time, as he bit into Will's neck, sucked with a fury, he ran his nails along the younger man's back. Will felt himself becoming so aroused he was afraid, his cock brushed against Hannibal's and the tingle almost hurt. They feel as if they are peering at themselves from behind a screen, Hannibal leaving tracks and marks on Will's back, Will gripping so hard that it would turn black tomorrow. 

It was strange and beautiful, absurd really, as Hannibal brought his teeth to Will's nipple, and Will felt exquisite, he feels purple and gold. His cock rubbed between Hannibal's thighs again, and he arches his back, sweat dripping down his red and bitten neck. His hair was damp, his face was flushed and he was so warm, even naked in this icy forest. Hannibal rears over him, beautiful, erect, his manhood upright, and he grabbed Will by the throat, but this time, he was not too afraid, even as Hannibal brought their faces closer together.

"Who is your  _Gahd_?" He pronounced, and WIll could see the sweat standing on Hannibal's chin. 

"Lord Almighty, he is the----" Hannibal's grip grew harder as Will fought for air, choking, breaths that did come coming in rattling, wet gasps. 

" _Who_?" Hannibal snarled, his teeth wet, glinting dangerously. He tightened his grip further, watched the tears roll down Will's cheeks, and posed the question again, and again.

"You are." Will finally says, and Hannibal releases him, and Will did not protest, he finds that of course, of course it does not hurt, inexplicably, and he is so hard, he is so hard. He spreads his legs eagerly, and Hannibal roughly licks two fingers, rubs them over his own organ, and thrusts them violently into Will, making him cry out. He fucks him with his finger over and over again, until Will himself has had enough.

"More." He begs, wanting roughness and nails and teeth. 

Hannibal complies, feeling like a tide, scheduled, wild, and he enters Will, and Will again feels that delightful sense of fullness, and hannibal pulls almost entirely out of him, before thrusting in again, making their hip, bones crash. Hannibal is biting him again, sharp teeth running over Will's pale collarbone, and he is licking up the blood. He kisses Will on the mouth, and Will tastes his own blood, strong and sweet. Hannibal is still gyrating over him, pressing him hard into the rough ground, grinding him against the roots of trees, and Will is going to be ever so scarred tomorrow.

"Oh God, oh God,  _Hannibal."_

He feels his cock twitch, and Hannibal grabs it, and starts stroking it quickly for Will, jerking it, and it was Hannibal's touch that made Will come, he feels infinite, he feels absolute and relentless, as the come runs over Hannibal's fingers. He licks them, while still thrusting his hips into WIll, and it must have been the taste that did it for him, and he stiffens over Will, throws his head back as sweat from his chin drips onto Will. 

" _You_  are my God _."_ He pants through gritted teeth, as he empties himself inside Will. He pulls out, and he stares at the younger monk. Will has forgotten the fighting, the screaming, the leaving, and he thinks of beauty and possibility, and he rests his head on Hannibal's hair-smattered chest. They are both settled, they feel firm and reckless, and Will leans upward, to whisper into Hannibal's ear.

"Come back to England with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....should Hannibal go to England?
> 
> Guys, this was done as a fan-requests and stuff, so please, do leave your reviews and comments.  
> I will be very truly grateful to read any comments that you have,  
> Much appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you go. I'm not sure about much of the accuracy here, I'll have to check. I know this first chapter has no violence/smut, but don't worry, the next chapters will be chock full  
> Please do, do leave all of your comments and reviews, I appreciate them wholly.   
> Thanks so much.


End file.
